DAS KROKODIL

Some­where in a rus­tic far north Queens­land vil­lage, where peo­ple are try­ing to en­joy them­selves at their an­nual har­vest festival as they strug­gle through an­other fe­ro­cious win­ter, sev­eral no­madic b***p ***** s are wan­der­ing down near Wharf St try­ing to stay warm. “Was ist das, Knut? Ein Krokodil?” “Ja, ein Krokodil.” “Less stealen das Krokodil!” “Ja, gut Idee.” So without fur­ther thought, or in­deed any thought, they bor­row a 4 me­tre fi­bre­glass rep­tile mys­te­ri­ously ly­ing near the rail­road tracks as if aban­doned. Back in their yurt they drink their philis­tinic Sh­nurtwein, eat goat’s what­ev­ers and howl at the moon, deliri­ous with their of­fer­ing to their in­sa­tiable Teu­tonic/Gal­lic/ Nordic/gypsy gods. They place Das Krokodil on one of their cer­e­mo­nial red shop­ping trol­leys be­long­ing to the de­ity Kolls, the Great Giver, and roll it along the Golden Way which the ig­no­rant na­tives call Macrossan, to the foot of Val­halla, the lit­tle light­house in Jalun Park. There, though dec­o­rated with their cer­e­mo­nial laun­dry, the lit­tle light­house re­fuses to cast an ap­prov­ing light. Dark­ness, just dark­ness. Is Kolls un­happy? What if it stops giv­ing! They bring out the tem­ple rat­tle. They sing their se­cret hum. Still noth­ing. Mor­bid noth­ing. Gripped with ter­ror, the Huns/ Vik­ings gather all their red trol­leys and rush them back along the Golden Way. One trol­ley con­tin­ues on and de­posits the Krokodil, now spurned by their bleak souls, back down by the rail­way line. The other sa­cred Kolls lie aban­doned, all along the Golden Way and in ones and twos on Warner St, where they can still be found to­day – the grim tes­ti­mony to the no­mads who had lost their way, fooled around with other peo­ple’s totems and suf­fered The Curse of Port.